I found two images somewhere on the internet and turned them into a 2-panel comic.

“Only a moment too late!” Reynaldo cursed as he watched the city of Antwerp swim further and further into the wide ocean, with his beloved Calliope trapped in a cottage on it’s head.

Infuriated, he quickly shifted his attention back to the enraged, horned city of Brussels as it stampeded toward his army. He would not leave his men to die, nor his brother Portius alone on Avenue Louise, a helpless captive on the city’s monstrous back…

I found two images somewhere on the internet and turned them into a 2-panel comic.

When the Pilot City, Paradigma, went online in 2091, managed solely by the Quantum Multi-Computer, our leaders said the QMC would revolutionize how our societies were run. All grids interacted, all services coordinated and all services aligned. They said it was the beginning of a new world. They said it would foster an era of peace.

I found two images somewhere on the internet and turned them into a 2-panel comic.

LOS ANGELES, California – Following several weeks of tension, a bloody conflict arose between the PCH-faction of the Los Angeles province and the Sunset tribes which populate the Northern hillsides and territories. The reactionary strike was only heightened by increasing rhetoric between local extremist clerics online.

Commanding the U.S. military presence in the region, General William F. Chase, has been following this conflict very carefully. “Unfortunately, this was only one of many recent attacks between the extremists,” he stated in an recent interview with ABC News. “We’ve taken it upon ourselves to mediate, but there have been too many innocent victims caught in the crosswater. Until we develop a comprehensive strategy, our hands are tied.”

I found two images somewhere on the internet and turned them into a 2-panel comic.

As Samuel lead his pack forward faster and harder, images of his mother flooded his mind… the satisfaction in her eyes when he first led a hunt, her stern demeanor when she trained the young pack to swim together.

“Hide her in the desert for now…” Samuel whispered to himself with a heart filled with spite.

For a fleeting moment on the tenth of October in the year two thousand and ten, a flickering shadow appeared in the chasm of space. Astronomers throughout the world noted it briefly as an interesting astronomical occurrence, especially in that it had the slight effect of distorting a great deal of light around its edges, almost as though it were deliberately trying to envelop itself from sight. Peculiar as that may have been though, astronomers at NASA and the University of California at Berkeley ultimately felt comfortable dismissing it as the simple and yet incredibly infrequent alignment of several planetary bodies in one visible space. Although a few simple notations were made and several pictures were taken for record, only a few highly-interested astronomy bloggers and professionals were told in passing, as no cause for special alarm or interest was determined.

It had been months since the increasingly superstitious denizens of the rural Tajikstani village had heard through rumors and whispers that the deformed hermit wizard Giljabor had dived to the bottom of the dank Shorkul lake, polluted both in its highly-poisonous content and its strangely ominous aura. As his tongue abnormally flattened, divided into uneven thirds, and then reformed in his mouth to utter multiple syllables at once in a language that could not be replicated by a normal human vocal cord nor heard without the addition of extra-human hearing organs manifested from an mixture of ancient, unholy lore and strategic bodily mutilation, the unknown space between the grotesque lake water above him and seemingly bottomless abyss below him began to rumble as fire spontaneously combusted from thin air, funneling a shockwave which began high, somewhere in the cold and dreadful depths of the universe, and channeled through his ritual into the equally dreadful emptiness of the Earth.

Directly above the abyss’s outlet, Samuel Barclay sat in the living room of his perfectly quiet and perfectly still apartment on a sunny, though unnaturally hazy, Sunday morning. Though he had made a point to be sure that his windows were sealed shut the previous night for fear of rain, a faint, though putrid, hint of the rotted flesh of a creature he could not immediately describe had suddenly begun to fill the air inside his space. He opened the sliding door in the hopes that a dose of fresh outdoor air may be able to negate it, but the still midday atmosphere did nothing to churn the stale, bitter scent’s overtone. Samuel turned upward from his reading, ill at ease as he closed his book, grabbed for his shoes and mobile phone, and prepared to step outside his home. It may have been likely that a sort of animal had crawled beneath his home and died over the course of the past few days, and if this were the case he would be forced to call animal control.

While Samuel had chosen to step outside of his home, the epicenter of the otherworldly scent would began to expand rapidly, completely enveloping his bedroom’s furniture and tearing the home’s electrical and mechanical equipment from the walls. At the same time, the sinister drain, while pulling in local matter at an alarming rate, expunged the curious, noxious gas Samuel had sensed to produce a more habitable environment in preparation for the implausible abomination beginning to move through the ever-widening trans-dimensional gateway. Dark, ill-omened whispers from a voice that could not fully be heard and which originated on practically the other side of the world began to finally reverberate like echoed waves of thunder:

“The Opener, his Great Prelude, the Vile Key, He who is Terminal, the Transcendent Nexus is upon us!”

The bizarre shriek vibrated from an unfamiliar distance through grunts, gasps and groans which cannot—in a full understanding of language structure—be considered linguistic in any way. But of the few semi-distinguishable phrases that rang out most loudly as they were insidiously repeated, these two rang out the loudest and most ghastly of all and finally caught enough of Samuel’s attention that he warily re-entered the house which he could no longer singularly consider his home:

I found two images somewhere on the internet and turned them into a 2-panel comic.

The elder Nigel Creswick opened the door to his perfectly sterile garage as he buttoned his pea-coat and neatly fixed his hat… “Raised American truck? Check… Huge plow? Check… Balls of bloody fucking steel..?”

“DOUBLE CHECK!!!” He shifted the V16 engine right into 8th gear and smashed his foot on the gas…